


The Art of Trolling

by Spindleshanking



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spindleshanking/pseuds/Spindleshanking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a small town like Storybrooke, it's impossible to sneeze without somebody noticing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Supervised by my perfect beta, who ought to claim co-authorship. I can't remember which one of us came up with the idea, but it wouldn't have developed this far without her!

There were three driving forces in Storybrooke: death, taxes, and Mr Gold. In lieu of the broken town clock, one could reliably set their watch to the pawnbroker instead, who meticulously maintained business hours down to the minute as though fulfilling an unspoken contract between him and the town.  
  
This is why, on an otherwise ordinary Monday in late winter, Mayor Regina Mills felt prickling unease as she drove past Mr Gold’s pawnshop and spied the “CLOSED” sign still dangling behind the glass.  
  
At first she presumed this a rare oversight on Gold’s part as the “back in...” card indicated 10 AM and it was fast approaching 1 PM, but intense curiosity--nay, mayoral duty--compelled her to park her Mercedes.  
  
When she grasped the knob and discovered the entry locked, she immediately thumped her gloved fist several times against the scarred wood, then shielded her eyes from the sun so she could peer through the darkened window. Mr Gold failed to emerge from the backroom. No movement at all, in fact.  
  
How very odd. Perhaps he was at lunch.  
  
Regina concluded it was probably nothing and retreated to the warmth of her car. She switched on the ignition and drove off to attend to other business, all the while ignoring the anxiety beginning to gnaw at her.  
  
Within the hour, though, she felt compelled to drive past the shop again and found it as dark and uninhabited as she had before. Mistrust flared dangerously as her worst suspicions were confirmed: Gold had failed to open shop for the first time in fourteen years.  
  
Something was not right.  
  
Regina didn’t fully understand the complicated daily minutiae of the Curse, but of one thing she was certain: citizens of Storybrooke never voluntarily altered their day-to-day schedule. They could never age, grow, develop, or understand how static their sad little lives were. They would never experience self-awareness, just as they would never leave Storybrooke. The Curse reduced them to oblivious, obedient cogs in a machine that only she could control; playthings to manipulate as she pleased.  
  
If this situation had presented with anyone else but Gold, Regina would not feel so unsettled. The trouble with him was never being able to tell if that glint in his eye meant Rumplestiltskin’s memories were rattling around his head, or Gold was simply a smug, unnerving bastard by nature. It always spiced their encounters with danger, which she couldn’t decide if she liked or not. Ultimately, no evidence suggested that he--or anyone else for that matter--had evaded the Curse’s effect... but if anyone could find a way to subvert the magical laws it established, it would be him.  
  
Whatever Gold was up to, Regina didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.  
  
Without further thought, the Mayor resolutely turned her car in the direction of Mr Gold’s home.  
  


-:-:-:-:-

Regina parked her car on the quiet suburban street outside Mr Gold’s two-story salmon-colored Victorian. Winter had reduced his protective barrier of mature trees to an ineffective row of black, spindly claws. Glancing over his dark windows, she attempted to spot any signs of life from within but that, of course, would have been too easy. She’d already spied his quaint black Cadillac parked around back, which eliminated the possibility of him skulking in the woods beyond the town proper, and last night’s snow lay undisturbed on the walkway leading up to his front door.

He must be home.

Satisfied, she quit the warm confines of her car and made her way up to Gold’s stoop, heeled boots crunching on the unplowed pavement.

Upon reaching the front door, she removed her glove long enough to rap her knuckles sharply against the cold, none-too-resonant wood of his front door. Her breath stilled as she listened hard for the distinctive thump-tap of the owner’s gait. When it didn't come, she jabbed a leather-clad finger against the buzzer to ring the doorbell, which she heard sound through the house. Again, she waited longer than he deserved, and still nothing.

Of course Rumplestiltskin would not make things easy for her.

A flash of nervousness joined her annoyance.

What _was_ he doing?

Her hand dropped into her purse and rummaged around for one of the silver skeleton keys she always kept sequestered in a discreet pocket. She casually slid it into the lock and with a slow twist of her wrist, coaxed the mechanism to disengage as quietly as possible. It did so and she carefully pushed the door open.

In spite of her attempts at stealth, the hinges creaked ominously, as though the castle was warning its master of an intruder. Undeterred, she stepped inside and cast a quick glance over the front sitting room and stairs leading to a darkened upper floor. She paused in the entryway, straining her ears, but still nothing.

Was he dead? Oh, perish the thought.

As she eyed the dusty possessions occupying most every available surface in sight, it occurred to her she’d never been inside Gold’s house before and had only ever seen a few rooms of Rumplestiltskin’s precious Dark Castle.

How many of these trinkets actually came from the Castle? How much of it had been furnished by the Curse for continuity?

By chance, she spied a suspiciously familiar box on the mantle above the fireplace. It was a small, brushed steel chest the color of faded gold, the sort that one might find in a vault. Her vault, actually. Placed conspicuously at eye level. As though he’d wanted her to come sneaking into his house and find it.

She stalked towards the casket, utterly disinterested in the possibility of an obvious trap. The instant it came into reach, she released the catch and opened it.

Empty.

What had been in it? Had it been empty from the start?

Discovering what else of hers she might find in his hoard became far more important than the idea of Gold breeding hellhounds in the basement or reminding the elementary school teachers how grossly underpaid they were.

Behind her was a glass display case filled with an indiscriminate assortment: a pair of jade elephants, an impossibly ornate Chinese ivory carving, a few porcelain plates, a large bottom-heavy goblet made of gold, an intriguing set of panpipes she was _sure_ she’d seen before...

But just as Regina reached out to grab the cabinet’s brass handle, a distant roar of canned audience approval nearly sent her from her skin. Her eyes shot up the hall in a flash of instinctive panic, reminded of her original objective: find Gold.

Another cheer followed the last, sounding from somewhere on the main floor. She collected herself and crept through the room to the dark and narrow hallway, following the noise around pokey corners and across creaking hardwood floors.

House as small as it was, it didn’t take long to locate the source to a small sitting room in the back corner of the old Victorian. With confidence that did not befit the intruder she was, Regina stepped boldly into the open doorway only to view the last thing in the world she ever expected to see.

The most feared man in town reclined on an uncomfortable-looking sofa with as much dignity as he could muster while clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a cranberry red “University of Glasgow” hoodie. In the opposite corner of the room, an ancient television was playing a rerun of _The Price is Right_ . Mr Gold shifted to his side and fixed her with a baleful glare, made all the more forceful by the dark circles under his eyes. Based on his unshaven face, Regina was confident he’d been lying there for at least a day. Enough balled up, used Kleenex to support her theory occupied the small black mesh wastebasket on the floor beside the couch.

“I know this sounds quaint, Mayor Mills, but I lock my door when I don’t desire company,” Gold growled--or tried to anyway--before choking on a wet cough he stifled with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Undeterred, he continued breathlessly. “Civilized societies call this breaking and entering; therefore, I am well within my rights to--”

Whatever threat he had planned degenerated into a series of urgent, hacking coughs that made him grip the edge of the sofa while his shoulders shook. It soon passed and Gold reached in defeat for a mostly-empty mug of tea from the coffee table beside him. He gulped down its contents miserably, eyes still watering.

Regina felt a vague twinge of pity in that moment. To her credit, she even experienced an iota of embarrassment for hastily leaping to the paranoid conclusion that he must be plotting to undermine her rule now that reality suggested this was clearly not the case. But even these redeeming human emotions could not prevent the smirk of suppressed laughter that curved her blood-red lips as she gazed upon his unhappy, congested plight.

The humiliating sight was balm to her soul.

“I would never abuse my keys to the city,” she soothed and the smirk transitioned to a smile. “You weren’t at your shop and when you didn’t answer your door, I couldn’t help but worry. It’s a small town, Mister Gold, and we look after our own.”

Gold remained unaffected by her assurances.

“Thank you for your concern, but as you can see there’s nothing requiring your attention here,” he rasped peevishly. He replaced a now empty mug on the table next to a well-thumbed copy of TV Guide Regina wouldn’t touch for her life. “Do lock the door on your way out.”

Then he shifted to his back and dropped an arm over his eyes, apparently terminating the conversation.

“You don’t look well, dear. At least let me make you another mug of tea before I go,” she insisted. “Spare you the trouble of getting up. I know that leg of yours isn’t kind this time of year.”

Her offer met with belligerent silence as if ignoring it would negate her existence. Undeterred, Regina leaned against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, and focused her attention on Gold’s ridiculous game show. They both knew he lacked the strength to chase her from the house. It was only a matter of time before he decided to sacrifice dignity or victory to maintain his privacy; either way, Regina would be entertained.

The voice of Bob Barker and the cheers of a televised audience filled the lull as seconds turned into minutes. Gold discreetly smothered a few coughs. Credits rolled on the screen and the theme music began for another episode by the time the pawnbroker relented.

“What’s your price?” Gold’s voice was weary.

“Unlike you, I don’t need one beyond the pleasure of helping someone in need.”

“The kettle’s still on the stove,” he grumbled and gestured vaguely with his free hand, face still hidden under the crook of his elbow.

Regina didn’t bother to mask the smirk returning to her face. He truly was ill if she could best him in a battle of wills without any real effort on her part.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll be out of your hair before Antiques Roadshow is on.”

Backtracking around the corner, Regina found an old-style kitchen reluctantly refurbished with modern conveniences like a coffee maker, a microwave, and small fridge. On the gas range stove sat a copper tea kettle, as promised.

She carried it to the sink and filled it with water, then returned it to the burner. She twisted the knob. The gas clicked a few times before the blue light ignited into a steady flame with a gentle hiss. After cranking the heat up to its highest setting, she cast her gaze around Gold’s neglected kitchen with a kind of despair.

A small collection of matching mugs lived in a nearby cabinet, and a drawer of cutlery not far off. Beyond that, most of the cabinets were empty save for a small stack of bowls and plates, a few pots and pans, and an assortment of miscellaneous utensils and containers clearly acquired piecemeal as he required them. A couple boxes of cereal. Cans of soup. A half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker. His fridge faired little better, holding little more than some basic staples, lonely in the cold white space, and a freezer packed with ice cream and frozen dinners.

_Typical bachelor._

Ever nosy, she quietly rummaged through drawers and cabinets for mail, bills, ex-enchanted crockery--anything of interest, really--but all too soon, the kettle sang and closed her window of sneaky opportunity. She grabbed a clean mug with a sigh.

Beside the stove was a green box of rather pricey Ceylon tea Regina was confident she wouldn’t find at the local grocery store. A hint of spice met her nose as she dropped a tea bag into the mug and by the time it was steeping, it smelled absolutely divine. Without even tasting it, she could already tell this blend would require few additives and going by Gold’s coffee habits, he wouldn’t want any. Consequently, after disposing of the tea bag, she heaped two large spoonfuls of sugar into the mug and stirred vigorously. At least three packets of his expensive tea might have also found their way into her blazer pocket as well.

When she returned to Gold’s sickbed, he was cycling listlessly through Storybrooke’s dozen local television channels with the grim expression of one who realizes their life has been reduced to daytime talk shows, children’s programming, and soap operas.

“Your status as the richest man in town would be more convincing if you had cable,” she said and placed the fresh, steaming mug next to his old one.

“Thank you, you can go,” Gold snapped. Without taking his eyes off Regina, he warily grabbed the mug, sniffed it, then finally took a sip. He grimaced almost immediately, which brought to Regina’s face a sweet smile more cloying than the drink she had ruined.

“You feel better, Mister Gold,” she soothed, collecting up her purse. “Storybrooke misses your sunny disposition and generous business ethics.”

Before he could claim the last word or throw a mug at her, she quickly saw herself to the door wondering what she had done to deserve such good luck.


	2. Chapter 2

**  
**Whatever illness ailed Mr Gold, it would unfortunately not linger forever, even in this stagnant, reality-challenged town. Regina estimated anywhere from a few days to a week before he regained any degree of functionality, which meant she needed to move quickly if she wished to take full advantage of this breach in his security. She had one shot at this before he had his house fitted with door chains. As a general rule, one could only break into another’s house so many times before relations became awkward.  
  
Today, Regina parked on the street around back and infiltrated through Gold’s garden door. Same as the day before, the lock ceded to her skeleton keys and admitted her to his kitchen, which had changed little since yesterday save for a new mug or two by the sink.  
  
With a smile, she took no pain to quiet the noisy crinkle of the half-dozen plastic bags hanging from her arms, nor muffle the jangling of her keys as she shoved them back into her purse. After kicking the door shut with her leg so it rattled in the frame, she set her load down on the counter with a clatter.  
  
Her efforts were rewarded within a minute. Mr. Gold hobbled up the hall into view with that tight-lipped, lost-eyed expression of his she associated with distress. Upon seeing her, he leaned against the wall and rasped in a voice as rough as the stubble on his face: “What are you doing?”  
  
“Oh, dear, you do  _not_  look like you should be up,” Regina observed, and to her delight, this was actually true. He was pale and she could see him trembling with the effort to even stay upright, struggling to show no more weakness than he already had. She advanced to touch the back of her hand to his forehead, which he swatted away irritably.  
  
“Do I need to have a chat with the sheriff?” She could hear the warning edge to his voice, one which might have given her pause on a normal day, but a university hoodie does little to inspire an aura of intimidation around a small man like Gold. The series of wet coughs that followed didn't help either.  
  
“We both know that would be a waste of time,” Regina assured him once he'd caught his breath, and with a smile, began to unpack her shopping onto the counter. “Much like your attempts to resist my staying here. Besides you'll earn no sympathy by complaining that the mayor invited herself over to take care of you. It sounds very ungrateful.”  
  
“Oh, so that's what you think you're doing.”  
  
“No, Gold, it's what I _know_  I'm doing. When was the last hot meal you had? And tea doesn’t count.”  
  
There was no response.  
  
“That’s what I thought. Why don’t you go lay back down while I make you some good, hearty, homemade, chicken noodle soup?”  
  
Self-preservation warred with better judgment across his tired face. Gold never just looked a gift horse in the mouth; he demanded its pedigree, a full health evaluation, and a receipt. And with good reason.  
  
The bait was set.  
  
“Consider it a free meal,” she added.  
  
“There’s no such thing.”  
  
“Fine, how about as a thank you for your tireless support in city elections all these years. Or consider it me fulfilling my mayoral duty to maintain positive relationships with local businesses. Whichever you prefer.”  
  
“I didn’t realize you were this hard up for a dinner date,” Gold said, limping to the counter to look through her shopping suspiciously with his free hand. “Graham not taking your calls anymore? You could have just phoned.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “There are a dozen better things I could be doing at this moment, like scrubbing the grout on my kitchen floor. But I think we’ve been friends long enough for me to be able to stop by and cook you dinner when you’re feeling poorly, don’t you?”  
  
Gold drew back to sit on a chair in the kitchen nook, a sign he was either satisfied she hadn’t smuggled rat poison in among her celery and bouillon cubes or that he was about to pass out. Regina suspected the latter by the way he pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned against the table.  
  
“What exactly do you think you're going to accomplish with this?” he asked in a low, tired voice. “We both know you want something, Regina. Why don't you be a good little girl and just come out and say it?”  
  
“As I told you yesterday, unlike you, I don't need a reason to help someone.”  
  
“That's a lovely fairy tale. Tell me another.”  
  
Regina sighed sharply and finally lowered her voice to a sincere and soothing timbre. Pleasantries and pretenses were dissolving; she was wearing him down. “Alright, Gold. I'm going to be frank with you. You look worse than yesterday and right now, your paranoia is bordering on the psychotic.” He wouldn't look at her, his eyes still shut as he pressed his brow into his palm, so she moved to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. He tried to shrug her off, but she persisted. “This is just what friends do. You'd do the same for me, wouldn't you?”  
  
He was silent, so she patted his back and walked back behind the counter. “Now I suggest you go lay back down before you pass out on the floor and embarrass us both. I'll have lunch ready in a couple of hours.”  
  
After a beat, he finally stood up and cast a look in her direction, making direct eye contact in that piercing way that always unsettled her, as though he were privy to every thought in her head. But she smiled through it, filling her mind with nothing but charity and goodwill, until he limped from the kitchen without saying a word.  
  
Victory is sweet. Stage one was in place.  
  
Once he was out of range, Regina took a deep, refreshing breath to savor her accomplishment. The day had barely begun and yet already she had bent Gold's iron will to hers. It felt every bit as satisfying as she expected it to be and it was becoming sweeter with each success. There was something so delicious about making him do things he didn't want to do, even when it was something so small and absurd as this.   
  
A good person would have felt guilty for taking advantage of him like this, especially when he was feeling ill and not at all himself, but thank the gods she wasn't one of those.  
  
Full of warmth from the possibilities expanding into her future, she placed the stockpot that she had brought with her onto the stove and began to go about preparing the promised soup. Only one more thing could improve this moment and a couple seconds later she heard it—a resounding thump and clatter against the floor in the other room, followed by silence. Regina's smile grew wider. It seemed someone hadn't made it back to the couch in time.  
  
As it didn't sound like he'd hit anything going down, she didn't bother following after to check on him. He'd be fine.  
  
Oh, today was going to be wonderful.  
  


* * *

  
  
Once the chicken was cooking on the stove, Regina swept into Gold's sick room, which was in dire need of airing. The television was off and he was lying face-down on the couch, his face buried in a pillow. She set a grocery bag and a tray of bearing two bowls of ice cream onto the coffee table then swept past him, going straight for the windows. Without asking his permission, she pulled open the drapes to let bright, winter light flood into the small sitting room.  
  
“Isn’t that much better?” she asked cheerfully.   
  
Gold replied with an inarticulate, muffled groan, to which she asked: “What was that, dear? I didn't quite catch it.”  
  
He didn’t bother to repeat himself.  
  
“Lunch won’t be ready for a little longer, but I brought you a little something to soothe your stomach,” she continued and made herself at home in the lumpy chair situated across the coffee table. “Now sit up and eat some before it melts.”  
  
(None of Gold’s furniture felt very comfortable; all of it appearing purely decorative and clearly designed to discourage lengthy social visits, as if he were actually in danger of them.)   
  
He lifted his head long enough to eye her offering and peevishly growl, “I don’t care for chocolate.” Only it wasn’t so much a growl as it was an attempt to hold off another paroxysm of coughing.  
  
“Oh, that's right, I forgot,” she lied without any attempt to sound convincing or to suppress her smile. She pushed one of the bowls towards him all the same. “You know, that's another reason why people don’t trust you, Gold. What kind of person doesn't like chocolate?”  
  
He had no reply to that.  
  
Regina grabbed the bowl with the most for herself--she doubted he would mind--and savored a few spoonfuls in silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Gold finally shift to his back and reach out for his own, then reluctantly poking through it until hunger trumped paranoia and revulsion.   
  
Regina couldn’t help but despair that she was wasting good, triple-chocolate-with-brownie ice cream on him. But it was worth it watching him choke the stuff down.   
  
She’d read somewhere that dairy increases mucus production. She hoped it was true.   
  
“I noticed that box on your mantelpiece the other day,” Regina began innocently by way of conversation. “I was wondering where you got it.”  
  
“That old jewelry box? I’d have to check my files; it’s been a rather long time. Interested in it, are we?” He eyed her askance, licking his spoon.  
  
With a hint of a smile, she replied, “I might be. You said it was a jewelry box?”  
  
“What else could it be?”  
  
“There was nothing inside it when you got it?”  
  
“No, just a box. Why?”  
  
“No reason in particular,” she lied, then changed the subject. “I see the VCR I bought you for Christmas has seen good use.” With the introduction of light to Gold’s den of misery, she could see the unopened box stacked beneath some books and old newspapers in the corner of the room.  
  
Gold didn’t answer her right away, watching her instead with his hawk-like, albeit stare.  “A thoughtful gesture, but I've had no need of it.”  
  
“Until today. I picked up some films from the rental store I thought you’d enjoy. They should to help pass the time.”  
  
Regina set aside her bowl to rummage through the plastic sack, reading off titles and setting them one by one in a stack on the counter as she pulled them from the bag. “Silence of the Lambs... Trainspotting...” Each one was met with a snort of derision from the man on the couch. “An Indecent Proposal... Oh, and some movie called... Rumpelshiltzen?”  
  
“— _Stiltskin_ ,” he automatically snapped, to her eternal amusement.  
  
“Yes, that's it.”  It took every ounce of self-control not to laugh.  
  
When she set it down with the others, he picked up the case. Regina held her breath, watching his face as he squinted at the cover and then at the back. His brow furrowed, then after a second, he tossed it aside with obvious disgust.   
  
Whether the antipathy resulted from Rumplestiltskin’s wounded ego or Gold’s poor sense of humor, she couldn’t say.  
  
“Why don’t we start with this one?” Regina said, snatching up the Rumpelstiltskin VHS and beaming. “I’ve heard great things about it.”  
  
He sent her a long-suffering look.  
  
“It’s this or another episode of The Young and the Restless.”  
  
Gold winced and sighed. “Get on with it.”  
  
“You know, Gold, it wounds me to imagine what other presents of mine you’ve left unopened,” said Regina as she cheerfully went about excavating the VCR and tugging it from out of its box. Staring at the cables brought about half a second's worry that the dinosaur of a television might be too old to accommodate the player and ruin her day, but with a little shifting and dusting and pushing around, she found the right outlets. “I put a lot of thought in deciding what to give you each year.”   
  
She cast a look over her shoulder to where he was apparently playing dead in the vain hope she would lose interest and leave him alone. She thought she noticed a shadow of a smirk on his face, though, which made her pause, but not for long. It was probably nothing, so she said nothing.   
  
Once the film was set to play and the yellow opening credits began to roll, she retreated back to the uncomfortable armchair and her half-finished bowl of ice cream. Out of the corner of her eye, Regina spied Gold sneaking a glance at the television as the half-heartedly ominous music swelled, and she smirked. She knew he couldn’t resist.  
  
“ ‘Somewhere in Europe, 1400’s’?” Gold boredly read from the screen. “My, my, if they were any more specific, we might actually know where we were.”  
  
“I’ll just go check on lunch,” Regina said with a smile and, ensuring the remotes were out of his reach, abandoned Gold to the opening of what might be one of the worst films ever made.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
What Regina didn’t tell Gold was that she actually owned a copy of this particular film because by ‘one of the worst films ever made’ she truly meant ‘one of the best.’  
  
Regina had never believed in karma until she stumbled across _Rumpelstiltskin_. Simply put, the film (which was unapologetically bad to begin with) amounted to character defamation unlike anything Regina could have ever imagined. It wasn't every day one came across one's rival immortalized as a campy, moustache-twirling, hunchbacked, hobbling dwarf whose only form of communication was bad one-liners. And the day she did, she knew she had to own it on tape, to savor and treasure until the end of days. Of all the fairy tale adaptations in this world, she could smugly report that none was worse than  _Rumpelstiltskin_ , while the Evil Queen always received some degree of respect. To Regina, this served as more proof that beautiful justice thrived in this new land.   
  
Though as with all things Rumplestiltskin, even her pleasure came at a price. As the only soul in this entire world capable of truly comprehending the movie's glory, it occasionally served as a sad reminder of just how alone she was here in Storybrooke.  
  
But not today.   
  
A short while later, Regina returned to the den with a tray bearing two bowls, but this time filled with—in her not so humble opinion—the best chicken soup Storybrooke had to offer. She moved quickly to place the food on the coffee table. Otherwise, she was certain she might drop the tray from laughter at the sight of Gold staring blankly and vaguely pained at the television screen where his purported representation now rode cackling through suburbs on a motorcycle.  
  
"What do you think of the movie?" she couldn't resist asking once she was sitting.  
  
"Incomparable is a word that comes to mind."  
  
"Not a fan of horror films, I take it?"  
  
"Not really, no."   
  
"Well I promise my cooking is better than the movie."  
  
"As are a universe of other things."  
  
"Behave, Mister Gold, or else I'll bring you more ice cream."  
  
He shot her an aggrieved look and she nudged a bowl towards him, which he accepted more readily than expected. He cradled the china with his fingers for a few seconds, warming his hands.   
  
Regina took her own portion and turned her attention back to the film, which was attempting to develop the unlikely relationship between the spunky heroine and the designated, misogynistic love interest. The part she tended to tune out.   
  
While she wasn’t actually hungry herself, she swallowed a few large spoonfuls anyway to allay any suspicions Gold might have. It worked; shortly after, out of the corner of her eye, she watched him take a long sip, his eyes closing with obvious satisfaction.  
  
But by the time he’d finished about half of it, he stopped and stared at the bowl’s contents, brows furrowing, licking his chapped lower lip.  
  
“This doesn’t taste right,” he muttered darkly.  
  
Regina sent him the best look of exasperation she could shape her features to. “Your sinuses are clogged. Of course it doesn’t.”  
  
“May I ask what’s in this?” They locked eyes and Regina didn’t dare look away.  
  
“No, you may not. It’s family recipe,” she said, smiling blankly. “But if you must know, I adjusted the seasoning on account of your condition.”  
  
“Yes, that must be it,” Gold drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into one of his infuriatingly unreadable smirks.   
  
Regina’s pulse quickened a little, which she calmed with a deep breath, and kept the smile in place.  
  
“What is it you’re accusing me of?”   
  
“Nothing.” Suddenly Gold’s smirk evolved into a vague smile while his eyes, in spite of their tired appearance, somehow burned with a nameless intensity that made her feel simultaneously defensive and giddy. “Thank you for lunch, Mayor Mills.”   
  
Only Gold could make such a courteous statement sound like a threat.  
  
The sounds of Rumpelstiltskin being firebombed on the screen by a disgruntled character demanded their attention, or at least Regina’s. She checked her smile.  
  
“You’re welcome, Mister Gold.” Regina met his level of sincerity, gaze flicking back to him.. “Now why don’t we stop this nonsense and finish the movie?”  
  
“If we must.”  
  
She heard the clink of china on wood and knew Gold had abandoned his food, to her intense annoyance. Wouldn’t it just be her luck if this didn’t work? Would it work if he didn’t finish the whole thing? Obviously she kept these thoughts to herself, continuing to eat as calmly and unaffectedly as she could.  
  
For the most part, they carried on in silence save for Gold’s periodic coughing and Regina’s muffled snorts of laughter. The film did much to occupy her mind. If all else failed, at least she would have this moment of revelling in her superior knowledge and Gold only able to wildly guess without success at what fueled her amusement.   
  
But it appeared luck and Regina’s new friend, karma, favored her more readily here in than it ever had in a past life. After about fifteen minutes, Regina realized the room had become too quiet. She glanced over towards her ailing rival.  
  
“Gold?”  
  
No answer. Instead, he lay supine, his eyes closed, jaw slightly slack, with one arm dangling over the edge of the cushion. His long hair wreathed his head on the pillow like a graying halo. Gold’s breathing was slow and deep.  
  
She’d never actually seen him sleep before, at least not as Rumplestiltskin. Sometimes she was convinced he didn’t.  
  
Not daring to even breathe, Regina got to her feet and crept towards him. Gently she slapped her fingers against his coarse cheek to test the depth of his slumber and received nary a response, not even a flicker of his eyes beneath their lids. His breathing didn’t change either.   
  
Gold was out cold. What a relief.   
  
She allowed herself a victorious smile and straightened up.   
  
In retrospect, she’d ground up a little more trazodone than was probably necessary, nor was it the ideal solution for what she wanted, but it was the best she had on hand given her time frame. And it did the job, which was all she cared about.   
  
Looking down at him, for a moment she couldn’t help but feel that, while Gold wasn’t as much fun as Rumplestiltskin, he was certainly much easier to contend with at times. It was nice to see him playing with a handicap for once.  
  
Stage two complete.   
  
Onto stage three.  
  
Regina turned on her heel and quickly exited the den, pushing aside all other thoughts in order to focus on the primary goal at hand, the goal she’d spent all of today working towards: unrestricted access to Gold’s material hoard for even just a couple hours. If any stolen goods were harbored here, she had one opportunity to find them.  If she worked quickly, she could complete her sweep without him being the wiser. What Gold didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.  
  
Wending her way upstairs, Regina was disappointed to see long, unobstructed hallways containing nothing of real interest save for an inordinately boring art collection adorning the invariably salmon walls almost like framed wallpaper. She peered briefly over each of the paintings and engravings as she passed, but they were just more of the the same gloomy landscapes she could purchase at Gold’s shop.    
  
Pulling doors open at random revealed just how many unoccupied rooms filled Gold’s house—more rooms than a single person could ever use—much like her own. Many of them served as exhibition spaces for his collection, but they were so filled with things and possessions to the exclusion of all else that they felt more like wings to a museum rather than a home.   
  
She wandered in and out of them, examining arrangements far stranger than the ones downstairs: taxidermy animals grouped with Victorian dolls wearing real human hair, a pair of nineteenth-century handcuffs hanging on a coat rack.  For the most part, nothing appeared to be magical and she recognized only a few pieces here and there, like a velvet display tray of gold coins minted by ancient kingdoms not in this world that made her heart leap with nostalgia.   
  
All in all reasonably interesting, but all in all completely his and disappointingly nothing worth stealing for herself—especially not the mummified monkey paw she knew well enough to keep away from.  
  
The master bedroom she saved for last because surely, if he had something to hide, it would be here. And if he didn’t—which she found extremely unlikely; everyone had skeletons—the thrill of penetrating Gold’s secret lair made it worthwhile. There was no way she would ever get away with this were he conscious or even well, might as well enjoy it while she could.  
  
The space looked essentially how she had imagined it: austere, yet deceptively comfortable. Opening the door invited a wave of something spicy and masculine to wash over her, the smell of Gold; a scent that permeated the house to begin with, but seemed to emanate from here. Truth be told, it was a far more pleasant aroma than the leather, dust, and magic she always smelled on Rumplestiltskin.   
  
Come to think of it, she didn’t really miss that.  
  
A pity Gold had failed to decorate this room the way he had the others, with intriguing knick-knacks and interesting objects. Without any distractions, really, it was his own fault that she was forced to ferret eagerly through his nightstand drawers, just to determine just what sort of man he was.   
  
But where she expected to find a racy magazine, she was vaguely offended to find painkillers, this month’s Sotheby’s catalogue, and a box of tissues instead.  
  
She sighed and shoved the drawer shut, resolving to subscribe him to  _Penthouse_  this Christmas (and possibly _Playgirl_ , just in case. There was an awful lot of pink to be found at an old bachelor’s house, and she had never been sure about Rumplestiltskin...).  
  
After delving into his wardrobe though, (which contained enough tailored suits to clothe the entire town, by the way), Regina was forced to conclude that perhaps that so-called jewelry box had indeed been empty whenever Gold acquired it.   
  
And as she could find no trace of Rumplestiltskin’s most dangerous or powerful magical artifacts, likely the Curse stored them out of sight as it had done for her. Therefore it was equally possible that nothing else of hers resided in the house, either, which was both relieving and strangely annoying.  
  
More discouraged than she expected to be, Regina exited his bedroom and paused at the top of the stairs, frowning and casting her eyes about for anything she could have missed. As she did so, she kept an open ear for any sounds from down below.   
  
The film had run its course, leaving absolute quiet save for the ticking of a grandfather clock. She still had time.    
  
Reflecting on the silence, a disturbingly considerate part of her suddenly wondered if perhaps she should have found some other way to put him out, seeing as trazodone could badly interact with whatever other unknown drugs he might be taking.  
  
But really, it wasn’t like anybody could die in Storybrooke. He’d be fine.   
  
Just as she was ready to return downstairs, in an inconspicuous, cramped corner of the main hallway, Regina spied a set of stairs she yet to try. Part of her told her she’d seen all there was to see and that further exploration would waste of her time, but the increasingly more vocal part of her insisted that a moment of substandard opportunism would haunt her forever.  
  
In the interests of her own conscience, she crept after the mysterious door. Unable to find a light switch, she carefully groped her way up the dark stairwell until a stream of bright, winter light blinded her. She blinked a few times and saw a fully finished attic room with slanted ceilings. But something stopped her on the threshold, almost like a magical barrier.  
  
In the gray light was a conservatively decorated bedroom with a twin sized bed pressed up below the window, a dresser with covered mirror, and a wardrobe off to the side. In a corner were a number of unmarked cardboard boxes stacked neatly. On the walls hung framed posters of sports teams and films. A surprisingly ordinary room, considering its dangerous proximity to Gold’s interior decorating.  
  
It wasn’t so much the sight that stalled her so much as it was the sensation of stepping onto hallowed ground, a place where she ought not tread. But tread she did, slowly venturing deeper into the room, unconsciously quieting her steps on the rug.   
  
Unlike the rest of the house, this was a space from which Gold felt completely absent. It lacked his scent, his touch, his things, instead replete with isolation, melancholy, and... almost a reverence.   
  
Warily she pulled open the wardrobe door, revealing a quantity of unworn, still-tagged, ordinary clothing that, if Regina didn’t know better, would have been just the right size and style for a teenaged boy.   
  
Disquieted, she began to paw through some of the most easily accessible boxes, but they contained nothing she expected: comic books, mint-condition toys and games with the price labels still affixed, cassette tapes for bands Regina knew Gold didn’t listen to... She stopped herself, realizing immediately there was nothing here for her. She shouldn’t be here.  
  
Rumplestiltskin had never been clear on the subject of his fascination with children. The palpable sadness here she felt—was it longing for a child he wanted, grief for one he’d lost, or was it not sadness at all? Could it be something altogether different, something more sinister and evil she didn’t want to contemplate?   
  
For the first time in years, Regina wondered if perhaps she had gone too far. She hoped not. Guilt was a tiresome thing. She’d hate to live with it.   
  
That moment lasted until she spied something on the nightstand wrapped in terry cloth, something that utterly obliterated any discomfort she felt for violating Gold’s privacy.   
  
With pounding heart, she carefully picked up and uncovered the item.  
  
And with pounding heart, she hoped Gold was taking something that might react with the drugs she slipped him.  
  
So  _that’s_  where it went.  
  
Regina held in her hand a magic mirror that, in a past life, would have summoned up the image of anything or anyone you desired. Now it only showed her reflection, but she would have recognized the silver filigree on the back anywhere.  
  
It had gone missing several years before they came to Storybrooke and while she was never able to find it, she had had her suspicions as to its fate. Though it wasn’t as if she had actually needed it. After all, Regina had dozens of mirrors like this of all shapes and sizes, so at the time its loss wasn’t inconvenient so much as annoying. But to discover it had been stolen...

  
No wonder she couldn’t find it in spite of very nearly turning her castle upside down (literally). Oh, she could strangle Rumplestiltskin for the elaborate show he’d put on helping her search for the mirror when he’d had it the entire time.  
  
Well that was one mystery solved.  
  
She carefully wrapped the mirror up and made her way back downstairs, blessedly relieved of whatever meager tuggings of guilt she felt in any of her activities today.   
  
When she passed the den, she stopped in for her purse, but couldn’t resist one last look at Gold’s helpless form.   
  
A dozen ways she might take further advantage of this situation rippled across her mind, including the rather dark realization she could snatch up one of those pillows and smother him where he lay, without him even waking to struggle. It was very tempting... but she dismissed the whole host of suggestions with a deep breath..  
  
No, she had what she wanted and today, that would be enough. If she ever managed to kill him, she wanted to see the look in his eyes as it happened.  
  
Collecting up her things, Regina departed his house in triumph without another look back... but not before snatching up his cane and hooking it over the back of a kitchen chair, well beyond his reach. A pity she wouldn’t have the pleasure of watching Gold limp or crawl his way through the house looking for it.  
  
Have fun with that, Gold.


End file.
